Page 25 of The Witch's Spell
He’ll always be my Horned God.
He twines his fingers with mine, and I squeeze.
The Highcliffs will still be able to visit. Which means I’ll need to tell Rowan what I’ve set into motion. We’ve still time yet until Yule arrives, so I—
Rowan’s grip on my hand goes rigid. I steal my gaze away from his face.
And my lips part with a tiny gasp.
The fog is moving like it’s alive, twining through the trees, lifting higher so it’s well over my head. I step closer to Rowan, tucking myself against his body. He stands firm, unyielding.
Behind us, Faolan growls.
Then, all at once, the fog pours back in. It wraps around us and the fire, dousing the flames immediately, as if offended by our futile attempt to get rid of it. The air turnsso cold I can see my breath, and it steals everything from my lungs, leaving me gasping in the cold.
But Rowan’s hand is still holding mine. He’s still here, beside me, grounding me.
“Fuck,” I hear Faolan bite out. But when I turn to look back at him, all I find is fog.
The others have vanished into the gray.
“What happened?” I whisper.
Rowan’s grip on my hand is firm. “I don’t know. But I don’t think the fog is happy.”
He holds out a hand, and it almost disappears into the mist that has gathered so densely around us. Despite my warm cloak, I shiver.
“What do we do now?”
“We get out of it,” he says, tone resolute.
I nod once. Clinging to Rowan’s arm, I let him lead me through the fog. It’s difficult, and I have to be careful not to trip, given how hard it is to see. I’m just grateful he’s here beside me.
I can’t hear the others anymore. Perhaps they’re behind us, or perhaps they all walked off in different directions. The thought that we could all become lost in the fog makes my hands tremble.
“It’s all right,” Rowan says. “If this is like the fog in the village, we should find our way out of it shortly.”
We take another ten or so steps through the wall of gray. The snow is deep underfoot, crunching beneath our boots. And the air is still socold. It hurts my lungs to breathe it in, like it’s freezing me from the inside out.
Slowly, as if I’m swimming up from a deep dark lake, light starts to glow through the veil. I hold my breath.
And a few steps later, the fog parts around us, depositing us at the edge of the forest line. Brookside stands tall in the winter sunlight, the cheerful yellow chasing some of the gloom from my heart, if only for a moment.
“We’re back,” I whisper, shoulders sagging with relief.
Rowan bends to press a kiss to the top of my head. Around the clearing, the others step from the trees, looking just as perplexed. When Cathal appears at the far side of the cottage, Orla runs to him. Seems he had no more luck than we did.
Thorne is the last to emerge from the trees. Even from this distance, I can see that his silver eyes are narrowed, and he’s worrying at a strand of hair again, smooth forehead furrowed in thought.
“It didn’t work,” Faolan says once we’ve reconvened in front of the cottage.
“What gave you that impression?” Cathal’s tone is mocking.
Faolan growls. It rumbles deep in his chest as our bond pulses with anger.
“Why are you still here? Go stay in the village.”
“We want to help,” Cathal says. He sounds dejected, but it’s just in jest.
